By a remarkably strange co-incidence, at the very moment that Sir Parlane MacFarlane sat in the coffee-house with Randolph OOsterhouse, celebrating the founding of their new enterprise, Amazon, each of them having an arm round one of the girls - forgive the use of the word, but in accordance with their appearance, it feels natural to refer to Stella and Fanny thus - in another nearby coffee-house, Theresa Somerville and Dominic Doubleday (he having acknowledged that this was his true name, never having been happy with Dirk, the choice of his Master, MacFarlane) were basking in the success of their joint venture, Shylock and Gnomes; Mr Rudge, Editor of QQ was delighted with ther beginning, the first two episodes having surpassed his expectations, he had said to them earlier, and readers were clamouring for more, desperate to discover the truth about the mysterious death of the Rabbi's daughter - was it indeed a tragic accident as the Coroner suspected, or was it Murder Most Foul? yet, despite all this, there was something Eeyorish about Mr Doubleday, some reticence that Miss Somerville detected behind his smiles and pleasantries, but she did not want to probe, sensing that he would speak about it when he was ready, and now he said: "there are things in my past and future that I feel contrition for, but cannot confess for fear of the consequences," said the (erstwhile?) Gentleman's Gentleman and concerned that he could so easily sink into a swarf or dwam if the conflicting sides of his personality threatened to overwhelm his ego, Theresa reached across the table and took his hand in hers: it felt cold and clammy and she saw beads of sweat upon his pale face: "perhaps you have caught a chill, Dominic, you are not best dressed for the weather, where is the overcoat you had when we met with Mr Rudge?" and he smiled at her concern: "sadly, I had to pop it along with the weasel; there's a Scots Uncle in the City Road and telling from my voice that I am from the same airts an pairts as himself, he took pity on me and advanced me over the odds, though I may have to compose a hymeneal ballad for his daughter's waddin in part payment if I want to redeem them while this bitter winter lasts," and he squeezed his co-writer's hand in return; "the truth is," he said, I have not been to my Master's lodgings since returning from Embra and nor do I wish to, for I believe, I fervently hope and pray, that my complicity with him is at an end, yet fear that he will not accept my resignation; we have been together, man and boy, near all our lives, he is the only brother I have ever known," and Theresa interrupted: "but he is not your brother, is he?" and her companion shook his head sadly: "in more ways than you can imagine, my dear Miss Somerville – we have the same father, but different mothers, and while I was given her husband's name it was always known to me that Sir Parlane's father, the previous baronet, had sired me, as his father in turn had sired my father – it is a long-standing custom within the MacFarlane Clan that the Chieftain has the droit de seigneurover womenfolk and it's a tradition that every Chieftain has followed and every first son born to take the Doubleday name will be the Chieftain's first son's Side-Man, with the special bond of them being half-brothers, but there's no democracy in the relationship – in all things wherever we have gone, I have always done as Sir Parlane told me, even though I knew in my heart that they were wrong, often illegal, and certainly morally reprehensible – he may have led the way, but I have been anaccomplice as much as a follower; until now!"

Throckmorton awoke with a headache for the ages; blearily surveyed the detritus of yesterday’s hymeneal celebrations from his makeshift bed on the ballroom floor; noticed with a contrite grimace the shiny gold wedding band on his left ring finger; then slid into an Eeyorish gloom followed by a pain deadening swarf. (by mtc)

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